the birds! the birds!

The temperature is still chilly here in the Chicago area, but it's starting to feel a bit more like spring. The snow has finally melted, we've had some hard rains, the days are growing longer and the birds are starting to chirp their morning tunes.

In fact, right now a bird is sitting outside my sliding glass window staring at me. And it's freaking me out. Really. Freaking. Me. Out.

I used to have a normal relationship with birds. They did their thing and I did mine. They flew from tree to tree, singing their birdy songs. I walked around the yard, talking to other humans. When our paths crossed, it was no big deal.

But then, our lives intersected, mine and that of the birds.

It all started when a bird built it's nest right inside the hanging basket of flowers on my front door. It wouldn't have been a big deal, but the bird seemed to slam it's body into the front door frequently throughout the day. I was afraid we would open the door and the bird would hit someone in the head.

So, I carefully moved the bird nest into a nearby tree. I knew this wasn't the best thing to do. But I had no idea just how upset the birds would be. And how hard they would seek revenge.

They sent their calling card a few weeks later. We had just purchased our new inflatable swimming pool for the summer season. We came outside to find that a bird had nosedived into the pool and was floating on his back.

That was strange. In seven summers of inflatable pools, no bird had ever drown in our pool before. Perhaps it had a disease? Or maybe it was something else? A sacrifice designed to send a message?

So, we buried the bird, and we threw away the pool. But the next week, I had a run-in with the birds that changed my life.

I was going for a walk and had just turned the corner onto a long street with no side streets. A bird came barreling out of a nearby tree and whacked me right on the head. What?

It took me a minute to figure out what had happened. But by the time I was back to my senses, it was coming at me again. Wham! It flew into my head again.

What? Do I have something stuck in my hair?

"ACK! ACK!" one bird screamed. Then, its buddy came from behind and hit me again. They seemed to be working as a team now. One would scream and the other would fly after me.

I started to run. But I couldn't get far before it would come after me again. I started diving to the ground with my hands over my head to try to ease the blow.

Whack!

Run, run, run. Dive. Bam!

A car was driving slowly down the street, and the driver was staring at me. I can't imagine why. I was running down the street, diving to the ground with every fifth step and screaming for dear life. I was tempted to dash out into the street and beg for a ride. But I didn't have time. I had to dive again.

Finally, after about 10 hits, I made it to the end of that street, and the bird went back to its tree.

"That bird did the same thing to my buddy last week," the driver of the car said. He had stopped and pulled into a parking lot. "My friend was so freaked out that he called me and begged me to come pick him up."

I know the feeling. I had to walk a half mile out of my way to go home another direction.

For the rest of the summer, the sound of a cackling bird sent me running for cover. But the birds weren't done with me yet.

It was late August when they left their final message. We live in a relatively new subdivision, and we don't have many large trees. Thus, we don't have many birds.

But one summer morning, my children set up a huge fort in the backyard using chair cushions, lawn chairs and assorted toys. A flock of birds swarmed into the largest tree in the corner of our yard. For about an hour, they cackled and chirped as they flew back and forth from the house to the tree. By the time they were done, everything was covered in bird poop. Not just a few droppings here and there. Covered.

This had never happened before, and it never happened after that one day.

Ah, yes. Spring is on the way. I love it when the flowers start to bloom, the grass turns bright green and the days grow warmer. But the chirping of the birds in the morning is a sound I can do without.

not another possum post

I swore I would not write one more word about the opposum. But there are a couple of things that just need to be said.

First of all, I can't believe all of the rodent, muskrat, squirrel and skunk stories out there just waiting to be told! I love your comments! Please give me all the details. Then I don't feel so alone in this world of furry creatures.

Second, I spotted the opossum today running across the patio and under the grill. OK. I use the term "running" very loosely here. It was more of a low-to-the-ground semi-quick waddle.

Fine. I can handle the possum taking up residence in the backyard.

But not this! Not SCALING the screen door as if my children wouldn't notice his fat body and furry tail as he scurried to the top. Excuse me, Mr. Possum! You are NOT a spider! You are not even a squirrel! What are you doing climbing the screen door?!?

Oh, no. And NOT THIS. Not standing with his front paws on the sliding glass door, staring at the children with his eyes pleading, "Feed me! I loved your Fritos! I loved your Frosted Flakes! Please toss me one of those cheese sticks! Mmmm. Those brownies look good!"

This is TOO MUCH!

Repeat after me, Mr. Possum: "I am NOT a pet! I am an over-sized rat! I belong in the forest!"

Oh, my... I feel some poetry coming on.

alligators under the bed, varmints in the garage

You might be wondering why I've been writing posts lately about opossums. Then again, maybe it didn't even seem odd to you, which is a really scary thought.

I was just kidding around last week when I wrote that it's my husband's "job" around our house to take care of varmints, rodents and vermin. Little did I know that the next day we would have a real varmint of our own to care for.

My husband had been telling me that he suspected something was living in our garage for about a week. I chose to ignore the ripped garbage bags on the floor. I also chose not to think about the sleeping bag that "fell" from the shelf at the top of the garage where we store our camping equipment.

Maybe the house was shifting and causing things to fall? At worst, a cat? I hoped.

When we got home Wednesday evening, we opened the garage door and saw the furry striped tail slip under the kids' big green motorized jeep.

Being the seasoned southern Illinois hunter boy that he is, my husband announced immediately that it was an opossum.

The thought really didn't even bother me that much at first. Until I looked at a picture of one on the Internet. Did you see those teeth?!

The next morning, we called Animal Control, and a lady in a blue uniform brought over a trap we set up in the garage.

I had known for a week that an animal might be living in the garage. But now that I saw WHO it was, I was scared to even open the door. We kept the door from the garage to the house locked tight, as if it was going to reach up and turn the knob. The bags of garbage started piling up in the kitchen. What if it was hanging from the rafter, waiting for a new batch of scraps, ready to pounce on my face?

The kids had the opposite reaction. Their persistent pleas to go hunting with dad had finally been answered... in a way! They were just steps away from trapping their very first varmint!

That night, I could barely sleep. I dreamed a falcon was caught in the garage. A family of mice was living under the chair in the living room. Worms and spiders were crawling through the carpet.

"It's not MY JOB! My husband is in charge of vermin!" I tried to scream out of my dreamy state.

The next morning, I slowly opened the door to the garage and peeked around the corner.

There he was.

He looked sad and cold, snuggled up in his new cage.

He didn't hiss or snarl at me. He didn't even move. He was just a baby. Just an over-sized baby RAT with a hideous tail! Just a nasty garbage-eating rodent, with sharp teeth that have probably been gnawing into every box and riding toy packed into the garage. Just an animal who has been trapped IN our garage for more than a week, probably leaving trails of his refuse all over our stuff!

I wondered what the Animal Control lady would do when she came back to retrieve the cage. I assumed they had an animal prison somewhere for garbage thieves. Or at least a special spot in the woods where they would drop him off with all the other raccoons, skunks and muskrats they had pulled out of homes, cars and garages around town.

"Better close your garage door," she said. Then she walked five steps to our lawn, opened the cage and turned it upside down.

He wrapped his tail around the bars of the cage and held on tight. She poked him in the butt, gave the trap three hard shakes, and he finally relented.

Then, he ran for freedom.

Well, not exactly. He waddled over to the nearest tree at the edge of our lawn and stood there. For several hours. By evening, he had moved just over our property line into the neighbor's yard.

I assume that he is sitting somewhere now with a good view of the garage waiting for the door to open so he can dash in and reclaim his spot on the shelf by the tent.

It's funny that just a day before the opossum drama began, my friend, Sarah, had been telling me how disturbed she was that they had found a mouse in the basement. It wasn't that I didn't take her plight seriously. But I guess I needed my own rodent problem to truly feel her pain.

We started joking around our house that the Opossum in the Garage reminded us of the book, "There's an Alligator Under My Bed", and that's what got my crazy little brain writing opossum poetry. Now, if only other people thought I was even HALF as funny as I do! I could bring smiles to possum victims worldwide!

**
Postscript: We had moved the garbage cans outside for a few days while the possum was in the garage. When my husband went to take out the garbage today, there he was... sitting in the bottom of the garbage can next to our house. Looks like we have a new pet.

little things make me laugh

There's just something about our first born.

He and I have a way of being brutally honest with each other. We make each other laugh. And cry. And sometimes we just connect.

Like the other day when he told me: "Mom, remember back in first grade when I really didn't like you that much?"

Um... no... I didn't realize that you didn't like me.

"Well, I'm really starting to like you now!"

Great!... I think??...

Then, there was last night. On Friday and Saturday I worked a Discovery Toys booth, which required me to lug about 10 huge bags of toys into a convention center, get up at 5 a.m. two days in a row and then stand on my feet for 12 hours straight each day, before tearing it all down and loading it back in my van. By the time I got home, my wimpy little bird-like body was pooped.

"I've got to get in better shape," I moaned as I plopped down on the bed.

"You do, Mom! I'll get your shoes!" little Mr. Always Energetic said. Moments later, he ran back with my running shoes.

I lifted one eyelid and laughed before falling asleep.

Today, we have been working on finishing the five days of homework that we missed while on vacation. This is our punishment for daring to leave the tundra and selflessly enjoying ourselves while visiting another country. Nevermind that we actually got to SEE Mexico, we need to STUDY the countries of Asia. (Just ignore my sarcasm.)

I try to use my best teacher sing-song voice when I'm helping him with the homework.

"OK, class! Let's all sit in a circle!" I chirp, reading from the teacher notes.

He obliges by sitting in a one-person circle on the floor. At least, I think it was a circle. Might have been a square. Or a triangle.

"Guess what, Second Graders?!? Your teacher hates phonics! You get to take a break while I go take a nap!"

Yipee!

He gets me.

skype is a verb

At our house, Skype also is a noun, an adjective and an adverb.

n. Is Dad on Skype?
v. Can we Skype Daddy now?
adj. We have a very Skypey father.
adv. Dad, you look Skyped today.

That's because many days lately, including a few birthdays and major holidays, our beloved father figure has been joining us via the wonderful free Internet teleconferencing service known as Skype.

He attended our son's birthday present opening ceremony while in China. And today, he helped me cook the turkey even though he was in Switzerland.

In case you're wondering, it wasn't Thanksgiving in Switzerland. So when 30 Europeans planned a meeting in late November and needed one American to attend, they didn't consider the significance of Nov. 27. Anyway, I've dealt with my anger. I've chosen forgiveness. The bitterness is almost gone, and I'm ready to joke about it. Moving on.

Carrying my husband around on the laptop all day does create lots of good family jokes. We carry him through the house, screen facing outward so he can greet each family member. We offer to put a blanket around the computer to keep him warm while we go outside.

We torture him by asking if he thinks the turkey smells good. We offer to let him taste the pumpkin pie. And, of course, when we set him down and forget about him for 15 minutes, we have to move the mouse to wake him up.

Only at our house, do you hear phrases like, "Could you move the screen down a little bit, I can't see?" Or, "Hey! Can someone carry me into the dining room!"

But in the end, the virtual member of our family is something to be thankful for. A Skype husband is better than one who can't attend Thanksgiving at all. Besides, he looks really Skypey on my Macbook.

And, yes, dear, we still Skype you!